Chapter 3

In my past life, I saw that video not long after it started circulating.

The footage was grainy. Shot from a distance, shaky, like someone had been recording from far above. Two figures on the rooftop terrace, pressed close together against the far wall where the security cameras supposedly couldn't reach.

Their faces were impossible to make out. Just two silhouettes. Two bodies moving together.

No one knew who the man was. But thanks to Jake's accusations, the entire company decided the woman was me.

I tried to defend myself. I went to every person who would listen—colleagues, friends, even the head of HR. I told them it wasn't me. I had never touched Marcus Hale. I had never been on that rooftop with anyone.

No one believed me.

I filed a complaint. I was prepared to fight. But my leader got involved and shut it down before it even started.

He called me into his corner office, closed the door, and sat me down across from his desk, his tone calm, almost sympathetic.

"Evie, the truth doesn't matter right now. What matters is the damage this has done to the company's image. The board is talking about letting you go."

I was shaking. I told him the woman in the video wasn't me.

He sighed, leaned back, and folded his hands. "As your leader, of course I believe you. But the rest of the staff doesn't, and this has already spiraled beyond what I can control. I spoke with the CEO. They've agreed not to terminate you—on one condition. You take a leave of absence. A long one. Let things cool down. Then we'll see about bringing you back."

His words were wrapped in silk, but the meaning was a knife.

I pushed back. I told him I wanted an investigation. I wanted to know who made that video. I wanted justice.

His tone shifted.

"Without evidence, an investigation will only make things worse. For you. For everyone. If you push this, Evie, I can't protect you."

Under that kind of pressure, I caved. I packed up my desk and walked out of the building with a cardboard box in my arms and mascara running down my face.

But leaving the company didn't mean escaping the nightmare.

When I got home, I found out the video had already reached my family.

My father was waiting in the living room, his face the color of ash. My mother sat beside him, clutching a tissue, refusing to look at me. A neighbor had forwarded them a link—the video, attached to a thread titled Rising Star or Rising Scandal?—and they had already made up their minds.

They called me a disgrace. They said I had humiliated the family. They didn't care about my explanations. They didn't care that I was crying so hard I couldn't breathe.

They told me to leave, and they meant it.

The weight of it all crushed me. I couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop replaying every moment, every accusation, every look of contempt from people who had once smiled at me. Depression hit me like a freight train, and I had no one—not a single person—who believed I was innocent.

One night, when the darkness was so heavy I couldn't see a reason to keep going, I decided to end it.

That last night, I watched the video one final time. I must have replayed it a hundred times before, but this time—this one time—the footage stuttered. The wind caught the woman's skirt, lifting the hem just enough.

I saw it.

A birthmark on her inner calf. Wine-colored. Irregular, like a spilled drop of merlot.

I knew that birthmark.

Serena had shown it to me once, poolside at a hotel during a company retreat. She'd pointed at her own leg, laughing, complaining it was ugly and she could never wear short skirts.

The woman in the video wasn't me.

It was Serena.

I died knowing the truth. And then I opened my eyes again.

Now I was standing in the same hallway, in the same building, surrounded by the same faces. And Jake was holding up his phone, the familiar video playing on the screen, his grin wide and vicious.

"Here it is," he said, triumphant. "Don't even think about denying it. Everyone can see it's you. This has been making the rounds in the group chats for weeks—if it weren't for me keeping it contained, it would've hit the all-staff channel by now."

He said it like he deserved a medal.

Around us, people craned their necks to see. Phones came out. Someone was already screenshotting. The whispers started—low, insidious murmurs that crawled across the crowd like a virus.

Jake puffed up with confidence, feeding off the crowd. "So? What do you have to say now, Evie?"

He expected me to break.

Instead, I steadied my breathing. I kept my eyes locked on his.

"You said there's a video. You just showed it. Good." My voice was flat, controlled. "Now let me ask you something, if what that video shows is true, and I have no memory of it, what does that tell you?"

Jake blinked. His grin faltered.

I didn't give him time to recover.

I pulled out my phone. My hands were perfectly still.

"Hello, 911?" I said, loud enough for every single person in that hallway to hear. "I'm reporting an assault. I was violated without my knowledge, and there's a witness and video evidence. Please send officers immediately to prevent the suspect from fleeing."